Shooting Irons
by Adrian Lenoit
Summary: The wasteland is a cruel place. Its every soul is tinged with the filth of its deeds, and nothing stays white for very long. Warning: This story contains violence and coarse language.


_This is a little piece of Fallout 3 fiction I wrote up one day involving a couple characters I invented. I plan to write more about them, explain their back stories, all that jazz. Still slugging away at Children of the Mages Guild right now, but someday..._

* * *

Jim followed closely behind Fly, gripping the assault rifle tightly, holding it to his chest for dear life. His eyes flicked back and forth across the bleak beige horizon, expecting to see one of the horrors of the wasteland kicking up dust as it barreled toward them, hungry for their flesh. He felt cumbersome, the equipment strapped to his back and hip seeming to weigh so much more than it should have, slowing him down and making him clumsy. There was an irony to it all, really; strapped down with weapons, but helpless as ever because he couldn't use them. Up ahead, Fly dragged the dripping carcass of the mole rat he'd killed earlier. The thing left a sludgy trail of bloody dirt behind it. The seeping wound had left a trail all the way from the entrance of Megaton. Jim looked up at Fly, who continually turned his head from side to side, but not in a way that suggested nervousness. His neck swiveled slowly, checking their flanks for any threatening dots in the distance. Slow, sure turns of the head exposed the round, glossy black lenses of the gas mask Fly constantly wore. The sunlight glinted off the semi-opaque circles, occasionally catching Jim in the eye and making him squint. In the crook of Fly's arm was his shotgun, the barrel pointed down and in front.

"This oughta be fine," Fly muttered, looking around. "First lesson's this: the wasteland don't have a lotta landmarks, so when you're going somewhere, make sure you don't wander too far from where you wanna go back to. If you lose sight of it, it's easy to get turned around out here and wander into something you ought not be wanderin' into." Fly pointed toward the horizon where Megaton could be seen as a vague smudge of rusty reddish brown against the lifeless beige of the wastes. "Most importantly, if something starts after ya, run toward the place you want to go back to. Getting' chased away's worse than wanderin' away. At least when you're runnin' home, you know where you're going."

Fly dropped the mole rat on the ground and took a knee beside it. "What are you going to do with that?" Jim sounded queasy, his face contorted in a look of nausea as he watched Fly go to work, using his knife to saw through the dead animal's neck. When he'd cut through all the meat he could, he worked the head around on the stump of flesh and bone holding it to the body until it came off with a sickening wet crunch.

"This?" Fly mused, thrusting the metal pike he'd brought along into the hard ground. His blood slick hands left wet streaks on the metal. "This is going to be your target for today," he explained, picking up the mole rat's severed head. He slid the head down onto the pole through its tattered neck and gave a grunt of exertion as the tip cracked through the top of the skull. "Follow me," he instructed, and began to walk. Jim followed, whining through his nose and feeling like he might sick up the bloody brahmin meat he'd eaten earlier. Fly turned, looking around Jim as he walked backwards. Eventually, the masked man raised his hand, signaling Jim to stop. "'Bout a hundred yards, I'd say. Good distance to start with." Fly took the pistol from his belt and set it on the dirt, and his shotgun soon joined it. "Line up the pieces on the ground. Any order you like, I don't care."

Jim did as instructed and set the weapons down in a row, inadvertently putting them down from biggest to smallest. He looked at Fly, who nodded at him then jerked his head towards the target. "All right, first we're gonna test your common sense. Pick up the weapon you think would be best." Again, Jim followed orders and picked up the 10mm pistol. Fly looked at him for a moment, hands on his hips. "Shit, kiddo, I thought even a sardine fresh out of the can would have a little more sense than that. Who you gonna hit with a pistol so far away? Here's lesson two: never use a pistol unless you're close enough to look whatever you're gonna kill in the eyes. They're impractical, inaccurate little machines."

Jim sighed and nodded. He set the pistol back down in its place and after short deliberation, picked up the hunting rifle that he'd carried on his back. "This one?" he guessed quietly, turning toward Fly with the muzzle straight out.

Fly quickly, but calmly, reached out and jerked the muzzle into a safe direction. "Next lesson's this. Every gun is a weapon. I don't care if it's unloaded, safetied, disassembled, or rusted solid. Every time you pick one of these up, you assume it's loaded, and that if you pull the trigger it's going to fire like any other gun. In other words, don't point it at someone unless you aim to kill 'em." He paused for a moment, then gave a jerky shrugs. "Or, unless you're going to threaten the with violence, but in that case you've gotta be willin' to shoot 'em anyways." Fly pointed down the field. "Now, I assume you got enough sense to hold the damn thing correct, dontcha? Aim at the rat head."

Jim pulled the rifle's butt tightly into his shoulder, right hand on the grip, left hand on the underside. He tilted his head right and closed his left eye, giving him a view through the rear aperture and the foresight. He held his breath, but took too much time to line up the shot. The sights began to waver as Jim's body rumbled with the exertion of not breathing. He saw the sight line up with the target for a split second and jerked his finger on the trigger. The rifle cracked out a sharp report, but the bullet flew several feet off target.

"I think ya missed, kid," Fly muttered, shaking his head. "What in all the rotting realms of shit-stained hell was _that_?" Fly inquired, pitch of his voice rising as it always did when he was annoyed. "Don't hold your breath the whole time. Relax, take a few breaths, then hold. Don't slam the fucking trigger, neither. Squeeze it easily. If ya pull, it's gonna veer off its mark."

"I-I wanted to make sure I hit the first time. If it had been an enemy..."

"If it had been a raider or a slaver, you'd be dead right now 'cause you ain't got no idea how to use a gun. See that rat's head?" He flicked a gloved hand in the general direction. "That's a rat's head. It can't shoot, it can't run, it can't even bite you anymore. A raider will run and shoot, and he'll hit you because he knows how to use a gun. That's why you're shooting at a god damned rat head and not some scroungy fuck all lit up on jet." Jim lowered his eyes, shuffling his foot uneasily. Fly sighed, shaking his head. "Reload and try again."

Jim looked at the weapon for a moment, then turned his head up towards Fly, sheepish smile on his face.

"Shit, Jimmy," he chuckled. The sound seemed humorless somehow. He ran a hand over the shocks of hair sticking up between the straps of his gas mask. "I reckon this is gonna be one helluva long day."

* * *

After teaching Jim to reload, explaining to his student the rifle did most of the work and all that the shooter need do is load the bullet in the right direction, Fly went about instructing him how to breathe properly when taking aim.

"First, take a couple deep breaths." Fly pulled the rife to his shoulder, he inhaled and exhaled loudly for emphasis. "Then one more breath, slow, but not too deep. Hold it, and find your target quick before ya start to shake." He breathed in, not as loudly this time, and didn't exhale. He took aim, head cocked to the side. Jim didn't know how he saw much of anything with the gas mask on. A gunshot cracked off, echoing into the endless emptiness of the wastes. In the distance, Jim saw the molerat's head move as the bullet hit home. Fly lowered the rifle, admired his hit for a moment, then handed the rifle sideways to Jim, keeping the muzzle pointed downrange. "Now, reload and take another shot."

Jim opened the breech, watching the spent shell fly out and spin to the ground. He took a new round from his bandoleir and loaded it. He pulled the rifle tight to his shoulder, walking himself through Fly's instructions. Two deep breaths, then an easy one, expeditious aim, squeeze the trigger. Jim nearly cried out in surprise as the rifle fired. In the distance, part of the disembodied head disappeared.

"Hey, lookit that!" Jim cried, grinning ear to ear. "Didja see? I hit it!"

Fly clapped his hands slowly. "Nice job, kiddo. You've shown that you can knock the ear off a stationary target from three hundred feet away in about eleven seconds." He crossed his arms behind his back, laughing softly as Jim's smile began to fade. "Don't be down about it. I mean, at least you hit the fucking thing this time. That's marked improvement."

"Somehow, I feel you're less than impressed," Jim replied morosely. "What do we do now?"

"What do you mean? You act like you mastered that thing. Shoot it again," Fly instructed, jerking his head in the direction of the target. "Shoot it until it's frustrating, then we'll move one.

Jim took several more shots, most misses, some near misses, a few lucky enough to hit dead on and earn a monosyllabic noise of approval from Fly. Soon, Jim was missing every time and becoming angry enough to growl or spit after each shot, cursing the weapon for making him miss.

"That's enough of that," Fly muttered at last, reaching down to pick up the assault rifle from the dirt. "Now this is called an automatic weapon, meaning as long as you hold the trigger down, the weapon will keep firing until you let go or run outta bullets. The key here is not to hold it down for too long, 'cause it tends to walk on you."

"Walk?" Jim queried, not understanding the term.

Fly looked down at the rifle for a moment, as if he would explain, but he opted to simply hand Jim the weapon, trading him for the bolt action rifle. "You'll see. Hold it the same way as the BA, but this one can be fired from the hip like you seen in those damn comics you read, but only do that when someone's within a stone's throw. Don't want to try to hip fire at some shithead from across the Potomac." Fly made a gentle waving gesture at Jim, meaning he could fire when ready. "Remember, the key is short, controlled bursts."

Jim pulled the butt against his shoulder and took aim. He went through the steps again,then squeezed the trigger. The rifle let off a rapid succession of pops, not nearly as loud as Jim expected them to be. He only held the trigger for a second or so, but he immediately knew what Fly meant when he told him the gun 'walked'. The recoil carried the muzzle slowly upward, each shot causing it to float further off target. The rifle could only fire two or three shots accurately at such a distance. The head in the distance jerked twice, two pops out of six Jim counted had hit home.

The young man from Vault 101 turned toward Fly, lowering the rifle as he sought either approval or reprisal from his teacher. Fly nodded then rolled his neck. "It'll do for now. We'll work on it some more later, but I'm getting' hungry enough to eat that molerat's head. Whaddya say we call it quits for now and head back for some eats?"

Jim nodded. "I feel a might peckish myself, but uh...can we have something besides brahmin meat this time?" He got a thick, greasy weight in his stomach at the mere thought of putting down more of that gristly mess.

"Well, 'course we can," Fly replied, raising Jim's hopes for a moment. "Think I can afford brahim every day? Do I look like some thin-wrist dandy from Tenpenny Tower? We're eating radroach and whatever canned rations they sell. Hell, we might even go for somethin' fancier if they got it cheap enough, like bloatfly."

Jim must have literally turned green because Fly clapped him on the back.

"Hey, it ain't such a bad thing once ya get past the mushiness and manage to get it down. It's pretty filling and it don't taste too bad. 'Course if you're hungry enough, even glue don't taste _too_ bad."

Jim bent to collect the equipment, looking sideways at Fly, who gazed off into the distance through the lifeless ports in the gas mask, not saying another word. A mask tends to make a man hard to read.

"You pullin' my leg?" Jim glared at Fly, trying to make his eyes seem hard, but felt he only looked sick to the masked man.

After a few seconds Fly shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

* * *

Jim panted, eyes stinging as perspiration washed into them. He swiped his forearm across his brow, moving his sweat-plastered bangs off his forehead. Dust blown endlessly across the ruined earth clumped on his skin, leaving a thin layer of grime on every inch of exposed flesh while his clothes absorbed the rest. In the sky, the sun beat mercilessly down, unsympathetic to the young vault dwellers plight. At first, he'd been perplexed as to why every piece of clothing he saw in Megaton seemed to be a dingy gray or beige, such dim boring colors. Now he knew. They'd all received dye-jobs from eons of sun and dust. A world without cooling systems was no world for James Monroe Jr.

The other unsympathetic character in Jim's life walked just ahead, occasionally swiping a film of dust from his gas masks' black lenses. Fly walked a few legs ahead, his journey much easier considering he'd made Jim carry all the weapons back to town, save for Fly's own prized shotgun, which he'd named _Betsy Ross_. When Jim inquired as to why exactly he'd named his weapon after the designer of the first American flag, Fly told him every good weapon had a girl's name. Jim didn't press the matter further. With Fly it never seemed to amount to anything relevant when it came to personal questions. Jim sometimes wondered if Fly hadn't spent too much time in the sun or drank too much irradiated tap water or plain old forgot who he was along the way.

"Y'know, I'm not a pack mule," the vault dweller protested, adjusting an uncomfortable strap on his shoulder. "Why don't you carry some of this, huh?"

Fly responded without so much as turning his head, voice unhindered in the unnerving silence of the wasteland. "Builds character, and you _need_ to build some character, kiddo. Besides, I don't feel like it." Shortly, Fly came to a stop and pulled out the bottle of water he'd secured under his belt. He lifted his mask with one hand and poured the undoubtedly warm, but assuredly clean, liquid into his mouth. Jim could only glimpse the bottom of his chin and a shadow of a lower lip, both of which appeared normal.

"'Nother lesson," the masked man sputtered mid-swallow. "Never drink Nuka-Cola when you're out here."

"Why?" Jim inquired, not having developed a taste for the ancient soft drink, anyway.

"You'll get cotton mouth. Stuff dries you right up when you're real thirsty."

"Got it. Can I ask you a question?"

Fly shrugged, which Jim assumed meant he'd meant to answer in the positive. "Do you ever take that thing off?" Jim gestured to Fly's face.

"Sometimes."

"When?

"_Sometimes_."

"Why haven't I seen you without it on?"

"Probably 'cause you weren't lookin'."

Jim sighed, taking a swig from his own water bottle. "Whatever," the younger man muttered, "Not like I every get anywhere with you, anyway."

"Listen kid," Fly replied gruffly, "You know my name. It's Fly. Plain old Fly. Everything outside and between ain't important. You don't need to pick my brains or see inside my head. My business is exactly that. _My_ business." Fly tucked the water bottle back under his belt. "So let it go, for God's sakes."

"I told you all about _me_!" Jim protested, following close as Fly took to walking again.

"Well, golly _fuckin_' gee, and I guess I musta twisted your arm to get all that out of you, huh? You practically poured your life story into my lap when we met, tellin' me all about your pop, and the tin can you came out of, and the girl you was wantin' to screw, and the ol' fella ya shot down. Now that I think about it, the part about you offin' that fella is pretty good. Way you aim, actually killing someone's gotta be a odds-defying miracle for you."

"I told you it was an accident!" Jim shouted, face burning red with sunburn and indignation.

"See, but that's the beauty of it. You couldn't hit a dead brahmin out here if I stood ya right in front of 'im, but you ventilate some asshole on the way out of the tin can without even thinking about it," Fly exclaimed, laughter taking a his voice as he finished. "Ya know, I think there's probably a lesson to be learned from that."

Jim rolled his eyes, following along as Fly began hoofing his way over a small hill. "Yeah, the lesson being I was better off _not_ taking lessons from you." A smirk crossed the younger man's face as he witnessed Fly's shoulder's tense up. "I think I'm ever worse now than I was when I had no experience."

"You watch your mouth, ya little shit," Fly spat, turning his head to look at Jim as he began to crest the hill. "If it weren't for me, you'd..." He stopped suddenly, having turned his head forward again. "Fuck! Get down," Fly hissed, tackling Jim to the ground.

"What's the matter with you, Fly?" Jim shouted, attempting to push Fly off. The attempt proved futile, as Fly easily overpowered him, holding Jim's head into the dirt.

"Shut the fuck up! Just...stay down!" he growled, crawling over the rocky ground to peek over the top of the hill. "Shit! They saw us. Comin' this way," he muttered, rising up onto his haunches shuffling back towards Jim.

"What is it?" Jim asked, clutching the assault rifle to his chest.

"Raiders," Fly replied, pulling Jim along with him as he stumbled down the hill. "I counted four, but there could be more than that. I don't want to take the chance." Fly looked around, breathing heavily as he realized the flatness of the landscape. Nowhere to run, only a few rocks and burned-out cars to hide behind. Those bastards would be over the hill and after them before they could make it far enough away. "All right, Jim, you're about to learn a lesson in peaceful negotiations," Fly stated, turning back toward the hill and starting up.

"What, you mean to say you're going to talk them out of murdering us?" Jim followed after, standing behind Fly as the two made it to the top of the hill. Three raiders were approaching, each clearly armed.

"That's precisely what I hope to do. Maybe if we make an offering, they'll leave us be."

"I never expected you to be the one to opt for a diplomatic solution," Jim remarked, starting to shake as the raiders came closer, their gaunt cheeks and shadowed eyes turning them into ghosts as they plodded over the beige lifelessness of the wastes.

"I'm not fool enough to take on three motherfuckers by myself, and you probably lower my odds of making it out alive. Now let me do the talking." Fly hefted his shotgun onto his shoulder, barrel pointed behind.

The raiders came into clear view, three of the meanest looking sons of bitches either Fly or Jim had ever laid eyes on. The man at the front, obviously the leader, had a shaved head and scars all over his face. He towered above both Fly and Jim, and carried a sub-machine gun, his massive, gritty hands making it seem smaller than it truly was. The two behind him each carried sawed-off shotguns. One was very clearly lit, his eyes bloodshot, his hair a mass of messy, sweat-stiffened clumps, his face pale as paper and slicked with glistening, sick-looking sweat. Jet, med-x, maybe even psycho. Whatever he'd taken, he was crashing hard. The shaking of his gun said as much.

"Evening, boys," Fly greeted, rocking his shotgun back and forth on his shoulder, "What can I ya for?"

The bald raider smirked, revealing a mouthful of teeth like old gravestones. Crooked, broken, and yellowed with filth. "Do for us? Nothin'. You don't know the story, huh? Let me break it down for you, then. Your money or your life," the man growled, his voice gravelly and malicious. His hand clenched tighter on his weapon.

"Now, there's no need for that, is there? See, I've got no money," Fly replied, now shrugging his shoulder in time as he rocked the shotgun. "What I do have are some weapons, though. I know you boys always need guns what with how rough it gets out here." Jim could see Fly working something behind his back, his let hand busily maneuvering it until it rested comfortably in his fingers. Jim tried not to look too long, lest he catch the attention of any of the raiders who might take their eyes off of Fly's ever-moving shotgun. He could see Fly's index finger slip into the pin, the grenade resting on the tips of his remaining fingers.

The lead raider laughed, a dark humorless sound, and shook his head. "Yeah, ya meet some _mean_ motherfuckers out here, don't ya?" His brow remained furrowed with bad intent as he stared into the black ports on Fly's mask. Somehow, even Fly's face had more life than the brute he was staring down. "But we got guns."

"All set for guns, eh? Well, I've got some food. Chems, too."

The strung-out raider twitched visibly at the mention of chems, his tongue flashing across his lips, breath catching in his chest. "C-chems?"

"We don't need no fuckin' chems, neither. These sacks of shit got too much med-x in 'em as it is, but they always need target practice. How about we give you two a running start?" The lead raider snorted, phlegmy chuckles rattling in his throat, finger brushing against the SMG's trigger guard. Jim could see Fly's subtle reactions. The masked man's chest rose and fell faster, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Whether these were signs of fear or anticipation, Jim couldn't be sure. He could only hope for the latter.

"How 'bout a little ammo, then?" Fly's voice never changed, an emotionless sound drifting out from under the black gas mask, but the speed with which he brought his shotgun down could be called nothing less than breathtaking. It scared the shit out of Jim, at least. The shotgun let off a low, hollow-sounding report. The tall raider dropped his weapon and doubled over into a series of wet, gurgling gasps. Before the other men could even react, Fly's left arm flashed from behind his back and flung the grenade off of its pin. The two raiders shuffled backwards, away from the live explosive, and Fly ran, pulling Jim with him by the collar. "Run for it, kiddo!"

Jim couldn't run as fast as Fly, but he could stumble quite quickly when dragged hard enough. He cried out in terror as the grenade thundered behind them, raining pebbles and dirt over the retreating pair. Fly stopped suddenly, and flung Jim by his collar so he slid behind a rusted pile of scrap which may have once been a car.

"Whadda we do now?" Jim stammered, eyes wide with terror, looking like he might piss himself at any moment. "Do you think you got 'em?"

"Doubt it," Fly replied, huffing and puffing as he leaned against the scrap heap. "I ain't no good with my left hand. Missed by a fuckin' mile, for sure." He took his pack off and pulled out a small metal box. He set it down, making sure to plant it firmly beside the derelict car. "Good thing I packed a lunch," Fly quipped, flicking a switch on a small cylinder that had been taped to the lunchbox. It began to hum very quietly. "Now, when I say run, you run. You follow as close to me as you can, and don't stop for any reason, got it?" Jim nodded, swallowing hard. Fly nodded in return and turned, peeking over the top of the car. "Here they come. Ready?" He tensed, watching the dazed pair of raiders stumble toward the car, pointing, shouting, and firing blind shots. Time seemed to slow, and Fly could feel every minute twinge in his body. His heart thumped like an overworked machine, his breath fumed out in noisy bursts, his palms began to sweat.

"Now!" Fly shouted. The two sprang up and ran like wild animals, neither daring to look behind. "Keep running! Don't stop!"

Jim did precisely as commanded, running full force, eyes watering as the dry air whipped over them. When the explosion finally came, it knocked Jim off his feet, sending him face first onto the ground. He slid, dust and dirt filling his mouth as rocks tore into his chin and lips. After spitting out a mouthful of blood and pebbles, he looked towards Fly. The masked man had been taken off his feet as well, but had recovered much more quickly. By the time Jim was even up on one knee, Fly had made his way over and yanked Jim up the rest of the way.

"What was that?" Jim's ears still rang from the thunderous explosion.

"A little something I whipped up in my spare time," Fly replied, dusting the front of himself off. "Better than a landmine, huh?" Fly huffed out a breathless chuckle, still panting from their retreat.

Jim doubled over, resting his hand on his knees as he caught his breath. "If that's what you call 'peaceful negotiations'," he puffed, squinting in Fly's direction, "I'd hate to see what you consider to be violent."

"That wasn't exactly what I call a diplomatic solution, no," Fly replied, cocking his shotgun. "Let's call that a 'communication breakdown.'"

"Whatever it was, it's over now," Jim replied, wriggling his finger about in his ear to stop the ringing. "Whaddya say we go home?"

"It ain't done yet, Jimmy," Fly replied, his fingers dancing on the round drum of his shotgun. "I know there were more than three. Where the fuck the fourth one go?" He began walking back toward the wreckage of the car, hunks of blackened metal and raider strewn about the dusty ground.

"Do we really have to go after the last one? If he was dangerous wouldn't he have run up on us by now?" Jim asked, ambling shakily behind Fly, still dazed from the force of the blast. The Geiger counter on his Pip-Boy began clicking rapidly, sensing the low-level rads the cars small fission engine had released when it exploded.

Fly didn't reply, he kept walking, his shotgun parallel to the ground and tucked tightly into his side. He made his way over the hill, then stopped a few feet short of the lead raider's corpse. In the distance, he could see a lean-to made of rusted metal and knew it must have been where the raiders had camped. He began walking again, closing in on the makeshift shelter. As Jim stepped up next to him, he could see the setting sun reflecting in the eye windows of Fly's gas mask. Perfect circles of crimson wrath burning out of his false countenance.

"Are you going to say anything?" Jim furrowed his brows, sweat running down his face, his formerly well coiffed hair long since foiled by the heat and dust of the wastes.

"Shut up," Fly replied flatly, voice filled with a restrained anger. Jim did as instructed. "If there's someone back there, they'll be able to..."

A woman ran out from behind the rusty orange sheet metal, pistol in hand. She began firing. Even from their rather wide distance apart, Fly could tell she'd taken something. He guessed psycho based on her movements. Wild, erractic sweeps of her handgun, as if she were trying to shoot bugs that were buzzing all around her. She held the weapon in both hands, but she could scarcely aim. Her whole body shook as if someone had her by the neck and was throttling her. Psycho took away the fear and pain, but gave you some horrible shakes when you came down, and this girl was coming down hard. Fly stopped and Jim waited behind him. The raider fired off her entire clip in a matter of moments, then began fumbling to reload. She never stood a chance. Fly moved in quickly, his shotgun let off another low-pitched report. The raider doubled over as her boss had, dropped the gun, but didn't fall. Fly moved in to stand toe to toe with the raider, raising the shotgun into the sky, then slamming the butt down on top of the girl's head. She stumbled into the rusted shanty and grabbed hold of a hole in the flimsy aluminum. The girl clung for dear life. Strung out as she was, she probably felt well on her way to falling right off the face of the earth. Jim watched in silence as Fly hit her again, the butt of his shotgun cracking square into her nose, bringing out a gush of dark red blood. She fell flat on her back, spluttering out bloody coughs, the red liquid standing in stark contrast against her sick white flesh. Fly rested his weapon on his shoulder and look down at her. Jim walked forward, breathing a sigh of relief. She wasn't a threat anymore and Fly would let her go, or drag her to Megaton and let Simms deal with her. Doc Church would get her cleaned up and then she could be judged fairly.

Fly shattered Jim's misconceptions in one brutal motion. Jim gasped at the movement, and nearly vomited at the sound. His would-be mentor's boot came down swiftly, ruthlessly, on the girl's throat. The sound, Jim gagged at it. A sickening crunch, like a carapace being broken open. Fly moved his boot from the girl's now misshapen throat, those black circles on his mask gazing callously down at her unblinking eyes. Jim ran, tears clouding his vision, but stopped just short of Fly, seething and frothing.

"Why?!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, horrified, sickened. He turned and vomited on the ground, face turning from ghastly white to strained red. Jim glared at Fly, repeating the question in a haggard voice.

"Why?" Fly mimed, his voice low and even as always. "Why not?" He shrugged, non-plussed.

Jim ran at him, but Fly deflected him easily. The younger man fell into the dust, his eyes red with tears as he glared into the machine-like face of his mentor. "We could have helped her. We could have taken her back to Megaton," he growled, spit foaming out of his mouth.

"We could have. We could have taken her to Simms, got her patched up at the clinic. Simms wouldn'ta gave two shits about her, after that. Moriarty, the fat fuckin' mick, woulda sold her to those bastards at Paradise Falls or pawned her off to Jericho, the horny fuck. Is that what you wanted?"

Jim gaped up at him, shaking his head. "Then we coulda left her. She'd have been out of her mind for hours, you saw her. She wasn't going anywhere."

"And that's a good reason to leave her? You call me cruel, but you want to leave some poor bitch to the rats and dogs. Ever seen a deathclaw, kiddo? Ever seen how they eat? How they play with their food?" Fly shook his head. "You don't get it, do you kid? Out here it ain't about what's fair. It ain't about what's good or right. It's about what works, what keeps you alive. We kill because we have to. If we don't, they will. They'll kill you without batting an eye, then no one will be able to help you." The masked man extended a hand, grasping Jim's arm and pulling him to his feet. "It's evil," Fly sighed, wearily shaking his head, "But, it's necessary."

Jim nodded and made dirty streaks on his face when he tried to wipe his eyes. He looked down at the girl. Tiny red blemishes covered her face, seeping blossoms of herpes trailed from her mouth, all the way up to her eyes. Her bare arms were a mess of track marks and infected red lines. The infection ran all the way up her to her neck. Jim could only imagine what he might find under her clothes. Gangrene, maybe syphillis. Regardless of what they might have done, she was going to die.

"You'll never be clean again," Fly muttered. Jim looked at him, a strange coldness filling his stomach. "The dust gets everywhere. Even seeps under the doors. Can't get away from it." Fly looked back toward Megaton on the bruised purple horizon. "Gettin' dark." He turned toward Jim. "We should head back. You hungry?"

Jim shook his head even though his stomach was empty.

"Me either," Fly replied.

The two started back, fleeing the darkening horizon. As it got darker, Jim only felt colder, inside and out.


End file.
